Part 21 (2/2)
”What happened to Evangeline?”
The thumb stopped. Obeline's lopsided gaze rose to mine.
”But that's what you you have come to tell have come to tell me, me, no?” no?”
”What do you mean?”
”You came to say they've found my sister's grave.”
My heart somersaulted. ”Evangeline is dead?”
Unable to follow the French, Harry had grown bored and begun scanning book t.i.tles. Her head whipped around at the sharpness of my tone.
Obeline wet her lips but didn't speak.
”When did she die?” I could barely form the words.
”Nineteen seventy-two.”
Two years after leaving the island. Dear G.o.d.
I pictured the skeleton in my lab, its ruined face and damaged fingers and toes.
”Was Evangeline sick?”
”Of course she wasn't sick. That's crazy talk. She was only sixteen.”
Too quick? Or was I being paranoid?
”Please, Obeline. Tell me what happened.”
”Does it matter anymore?”
”It matters to me.”
Carefully, Obeline set her drink on the gate-leg table at her side. Adjusted her shawl. Smoothed her skirt. Laid her hands in her lap. Looked at them.
”Mama was bedridden. Grand-pere couldn't work. It fell to Evangeline to bring home a check.”
”She was only a kid.” I was doing a poor job of masking my feelings.
”Things were different then.”
The statement hung in the air.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I was too dejected to push.
No matter. Obeline continued without prodding.
”When we were separated, at first I wanted to die.”
”Separated?”
”My mother and sister moved in with Grand-pere. I was sent to live with a Landry cousin. But Evangeline and I talked. Not often. But I knew what was happening.
”In the mornings and evenings, Evangeline nursed Mama. The rest of the day she worked as a maid. A portion of her pay was sent for my support.”
”What was wrong with your mother?”
”I don't know. I was much too young.”
Again, too rapid?
”Where was your father?”
”If we ever meet, I'll make certain to ask. That will be in another life, of course.”
”He's dead?”
She nodded. ”It was hard on Evangeline. I wanted to help, but I was so little. What could I do?”
”Neither of you attended school?”
”I went for a few years. Evangeline already knew how to read and do math.”
My friend, who loved books and stories, and wanted to be a poet. I didn't trust myself to comment.
”Mama died,” Obeline continued. ”Four months later it was Grand-pere.”
Obeline stopped. Composing herself? Organizing recollections? Triaging what to share and what to hold back?
”Two days after Grand-pere's funeral, I was taken to his house. Someone had brought empty boxes. I was told to pack everything. I was in an upstairs bedroom when I heard yelling. I crept downstairs and listened outside the kitchen door.
”Evangeline was arguing with a man. I couldn't hear their words, but their voices frightened me. I ran back upstairs. Hours later, as we were leaving, I saw into the kitchen.” She swallowed. ”Blood. On the wall. More on the table. b.l.o.o.d.y rags in the sink.”
Sweet Jesus.
”What did you do?”
”Nothing. What could I do? I was terrified. I kept it to myself.”
”Who was the man?”
”I don't know.”
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